When the Snow Lay Round About
by Garonne
Summary: Ficlets for Hades' Christmas Prompt Challenge. Friendship, no slash. Christmassy ficlets from the POV of various characters.
1. Holmes in a party hat

Thanks to Hades Lord of the Dead for the prompt: Holmes in a party hat

...

6th January 1895

Dessert was brought into the dining room, and for some reason this sparked a spirited discussion among the children. My French was not quite good enough to follow a conversation between seven children all shouting at once, but as far as I could tell, the object of the argument was to determine who was the youngest.

Madame Gauthier soon stepped in to restore order. I watched her send her sons and daughters, nephews and nieces back to their places at the table. She had the Holmesian nose, and it was odd to see it on that pink-cheeked, good-natured face. I hadn't quite worked out how exactly she was related to Holmes, but it was a very distant connection.

Holmes himself, sitting to my right, had been engaged in desultory conversation with Madame Gauthier's brother-in-law - he who had first written asking for Holmes' help. At the commotion they had broken off speaking, and now Holmes turned to me.

 _"La galette des rois,"_ he murmured, nodding at the cake, which now sat in pride of place on the table.

"Ah," I said, though I still didn't understand why the children were so excited.

I sat back, content to simply wait and see. I was in a relaxed, indolent mood. The room was full of good cheer, good food, and good company. This last case had almost been the straw that broke the camel's back, but it was over now at last, thank goodness.

When Holmes had first received the letter from his distant cousins, appealing for his help after the mysterious disappearance of one of their number, I had been dismayed. Holmes was exhausted, at the end of a difficult, month-long case. He was in a rather peculiar mood throughout our journey to France and our stay there, and even the ease with which he located the young lad, when all previous efforts had failed, was not enough to cheer him up. When Madame Gauthier invited us to stay a few days longer for the feast of the Epiphany, I had expected Holmes to refuse. To my surprise, he accepted. I had rather been hoping the party might bring him out of himself, but so far the festive atmosphere had had no effect on him. Had he been in one of his habitual black moods, of course, no evening of mere good cheer could have helped, but this was something different.

Now, I watched as the smallest child, a three-year old in pigtails and a festive cotton smock, was sent under the table. Egged on by the adults, she pointed at random to different corners of the table, directing the distribution of slices of cake up above. Finally, I was beginning to understand the process. One of the slices must contain some small object, rather in the manner of the sixpence in our Christmas pudding.

"A broad-bean," Holmes said in my ear. He had been following the path of my thoughts, of course.

The distribution of dessert took a long time, with so many people at table, but finally we were all sitting with a slice of golden brown pastry before us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Holmes break into his slice of galette with his fork, and then hesitate.

For a moment I thought he might hide the bean, or even swallow it, but the sharp-eyed young lady opposite him - daughter of a neighbour, I believed - had already sent up an excited cry.

 _"La feve ! C'est lui qui a la feve !"_

I knew Holmes well enough to see he was extremely reluctant to rouse himself from his sombre mood, but he was always courteous above all else, and courtesy obliged him to go along with the ritual. Soon he was wearing a crown fashioned by the children from coloured crepe paper, and designating as his queen the little girl who'd distributed the slices.

After we'd eaten, space was cleared for music and dancing. Holmes, no longer the centre of attention, met my gaze then and gave me a wry smile.

"Very fetching, Holmes," I said with a smirk, nodding at his lopsided crown. He scowled at me, but there was no heat in it.

An hour or so later, I looked up from my conversation with the local doctor and was surprised to see Holmes, on the far side of the room, laughing aloud.

"What an extraordinarily pleasant evening," I said later, as we climbed the stairs at the end of the evening. "It brings back happy memories of childhood."

Holmes hummed in a noncommittal way.

"Didn't you once say you spent all your childhood Christmases in France?" I said then, struck by a sudden memory.

"My branch of the family were never very keen on festivities," Holmes said in an offhand manner.

But there was no bitterness in his voice, and his sombre mood seemed to have lifted.

As we said goodnight at the door to my room, I noticed he was still wearing his party hat.


	2. Celtic Christmas

I've had a crazy month of December, and haven't been able to write at all, but now I'm finally catching up. Thank you Hades for continuing to send me prompts even though I wasn't responding! I'm looking forward to catching up with everyone else's prompt responses too.

And thanks to Madam'zelleGiry for the prompt for this ficlet: Celtic Christmas

.. .. ..

It's a long way from Baker Street to Gravesend, where my sister Biddy lives, so I only go out there when I have a full day off. She married an Englishman, and they've three children already.

Last time I went out to see them was the morning after Christmas Day this year. I was humming to myself as I walked down from Gravesend railway station, my Christmas box tucked under my arm. I was that happy. I couldn't wait to see Biddy's face when I opened the box.

She lives near the riverfront. Her husband works in the port, you see. William is his name. It was still well before noon when I knocked on their door. I'd set off very early that morning, so's to make the most of my day off. On Christmas Day I had to wait on the two gentlemen upstairs, of course, but Mrs Hudson gave me Stephen's Day off. Or Boxing Day, as they call it over here in England.

One of the boys let me in. He'd grown almost two inches since I last saw him, but he remembered his Auntie Nora all right. I had a handful of bull's-eyes in my pocket for him, same as the last time I came round.

" _A Nora, a chroi!_ " Biddy called out in Irish as soon as I'd crossed the threshold. "Come and help me with the dinner. Nobody's lifted a hand to help me all day."

That put a fierce scowl on William's face. He was sitting in the corner, working away at something, a piece of leather and a bradawl in his hands. He doesn't like her using the Irish, because she only does it when she wants to complain about him to me without him understanding. He had a polite nod and a word of welcome for me, however.

Biddy had just laid a big lump of black pudding on the table, and was cutting it into slices. There was a pot of boiled cabbage and potatoes on the fire in the corner.

They have only the lower two rooms of the house they're in. There's another family upstairs - a different one every time I come, it seems to me. The price of the rent drives them out. It's a lovely dry house, in good repair, not even so much as a hole in the roof or the door, and that drives up the rent. Thanks be to God William is in steady work.

Anyway, I was thinking about the neighbours because Biddy always has a few words of complaint about them as soon as she sees me, but this time she was more interested in the contents of my Christmas box.

I opened it proudly: an enormous fruit pudding, a tin of mince pies and best of all, two goose legs.

Those goose legs were a real stroke of luck. The two gentlemen upstairs were called away in the middle of dinner yesterday, and only Dr Watson came back. Mr Holmes is sometimes away for days on end, Lord knows why. All the better for us, this time, because Dr Watson may have an enormous appetite, but even he can't eat an entire goose by himself.

Biddy was over the moon with the goose. She drives me barney sometimes, and she has since we were children. But she's my sister, when all's said and done. And if it wasn't for her sending me the money to come over, I'd still be in Ballinascarty, and today I'd be eating from a pot of Indian meal, same as every day.

William got out his carving knife, and we all sat down to dinner. Biddy wanted to tell me the latest gossip on the street, but she was cried down by the boys. They wanted to hear new tales of the brave and handsome Constable George Merryweather, who has solved all of the most mysterious crimes in London over the past few years, with the occasional help of Mr Holmes and Dr Watson.

Constable Merryweather always takes a cup of tea in the kitchen with me, whenever he calls around to Baker Street. Or at least, whenever he's alone, and not with that Inspector who looks like a bulldog, I forget his name now. He's a very polite, very clever man - Constable Merryweather, I mean. I'm quite sure he'll be a Chief Inspector within a few years.

"This one is called the Adventure of the Norwood Builder," I began, "and it's about how Constable Merryweather made several very important discoveries, including trouser buttons in the woodpile, and a bloody thumbprint on the wall..."


	3. Flowers

Thanks to cjnwriter for the prompt: Flowers

One morning in December, I walked into the sitting room to find a plant pot on the table, filled with the gorgeous red blooms of poinsettia, the Christmas flower. It hadn't been there when I went to bed the night before.

I'd spent the previous evening at my friend Henrietta's, as I often do when John is away with Mr Holmes. I generally prefer not to stay in alone. I'd come home quite late, but before making my way upstairs I had stepped into the sitting room to put my sewing things away, and I was quite sure there'd been nothing at all on the table.

I crossed the sitting room and pushed open the door to John's study. He was in his armchair, fast asleep. He had one boot off and the other only unlaced, and his coat was lying crumpled on the ground beside his slippers, where it must have fallen when he drifted off to sleep.

I smiled fondly to myself, picturing him sitting down 'just for a little rest' before coming up to bed. Though really, it was too bad of Mr Holmes to drag my poor husband across half the country, tire him out, and then send him home in the middle of the night.

I stood there for a moment, looking at him, feeling one emotion after another run through me. I was touched by the unexpected gift of flowers. Relieved to find him in one piece, for one never really knows what may happen when Mr Holmes is involved. A little caught out, because I had expected him to be away for another few days yet, and I had planned a light lunch of leftovers for myself. But mostly just overjoyed to have him here today with me.

I stepped forward to wake him with a kiss.


	4. Holmes and Mrs Hudson celebrate

Another late entry to my calendar. And still several more to come, because I really don't want to do even worse this year than last year (only wrote fic on five of the days last year)

Thanks to Hades Lord of the Dead for this prompt: Holmes and Mrs Hudson celebrate

* * *

"Why the long face, Mrs Hudson?" I cried, as she busied herself setting the table for Christmas dinner.

She didn't answer. I sprang up from my seat to help her with a heavy sauce dish.

"Now really, Mrs Hudson," I admonished. "You know this is the season of glad tidings and joy."

"Indeed it is, Mr Holmes," she said calmly. "I'll just go and fetch the ham."

She left the room, and my seasonal cheer disappeared. It had been as false as it was forced. I was faced with the inescapable reality of a Christmas dinner table set for one. My first Christmas at Baker Street without Watson.

The good doctor had invited me around for dinner with himself and his wife, insistently and on several occasions. I had repeatedly declined, however. Now, the thought of stuffing and mince pies was almost repulsive to me.

Mrs Hudson reappeared, bearing a platter of cold cuts of ham and turkey. I was struck by a sudden idea.

"Mrs Hudson," I said impulsively. "Your sister is not with you this year, I believe."

"No, she couldn't come. Her daughter's youngest - "

I waved an impatient hand to cut off her explanations. I had caught a glimpse of her sister leaving the house last Saturday, and the entire saga of her grand-nephew's twisted ankle and broken collarbone was already known to me.

"Won't you join me for dinner?" I suggested.

That brought a sudden, rare smile to her face.

"Gladly," she said, and within minutes another place was set at the table, and we were sitting down to Christmas dinner together.


End file.
